the prisoner
by il labirinto
Summary: Kings have no need for a queen, and Peter is a king of his own right-Or rather, decades of tension snap, and the story of how the cage came to be.


Kings have no need for a queen, and Peter is a king of his own right. He rules Neverland in a way no monarch has ever ruled a kingdom before; he's no tyrant, no true monarch—he's the foundation of Neverland itself, and each river is an extension of his veins, each inch of land a square of his scarred skin. The skies are his eyes, the seas his blood, the air his lungs.

He has no need for a Wendy at his side.

(_Wendy with her fragile bird bones, her back sprinkled with soft freckles, her curls that expand with the oppressive, tropical heat of the forest. Wendy with her voice like honeysuckle, her voice like fire, her voice like storm winds._)

After the Lost Boys march off to bed—rather, they collapse, exhausted from another tireless day of games and fights—Peter steps into Wendy's mock house, the little room he had the boys painstakingly build, an exact replica of the disgustingly cozy room she had back in London. Her back faces him as she folds the soft, fragile dresses he forced his shadow to find, just for her, and he silently watches the lines of her shoulders quiver and curve forward over the pile of pretty fabrics.

Lips in a thin line, he walks towards her, wrapping his arms round her waist, and resting his chin on her thin shoulder, looking over her at the now tear-stained satin pink dress at the top of the pile. His arms tighten around her, pressing her thin back against his chest, and he feels the lines of her back stiffen against him and her breath catch at her throat.

"Just _what_ are you crying about, darling?" he breathes against her ear. He smirks when Wendy shivers, though she pretends not have done so, and when she tenses and breaks out of his gentle hold, he lets his arms fall to his sides and tilts his head to the side.

Red rings around her wide, ocean eyes, and tears mark a shiny path down her pale cheeks. The candles on the nightstand few feet behind her light a halo around the blonde curls of her hair. Her small chest heaves, but she remains silent, breathing through her nose and straightening her back until she stands, stiff as a sword.

"None of _your_ concern," she answers, voice prim and edged like the sharp end of a claw. "Run along, Peter. There's nothing here for you, especially tonight."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "But…I believe there is. See, sadness cannot exist _here_, of all places." And his grin shines brighter than the Neverland sun, brighter than the moon, than the gleam of far, distant planets that hold promises of death and terror unlike that of his domain. "Haven't I treated my Wendybird right?"

"No!" Wendy snaps, just like a stepped on twig, and her voice cracks like thunder, with all the force of lightening. Something bursts in those previously dimmed blue eyes weighed by decades of imprisonment, and Peter only watches as she throws away the reigns of her tightly held control and stomps towards him, mouth twisted in a scowl. "No, you have _not_. I want to go _home_, you _monster_."

Silence shrouds around them. Peter breaks it with a click of his tongue, and leans forward, close enough that Wendy's eyes almost blur before him.

"Neverland is your home."

That something in her eyes shatters, and Wendy growls, reaching for his neck with her calloused, dirty hands, and Peter laughs as he grabs her wrists and _twists_.

Wendy screams, does not cry out, and she shoves against him, kicks at his shins. Even when he throws her onto the bed, onto the pile of pretty dresses he got _just for her_, she continues to thrash against him and bare her teeth at him, screaming obscenities she could only have heard from the pirates.

In all of one second, Peter captures her lips with his own, breathes against her mouth, bites and nips and tugs until her blood bursts in his mouth. Wendy snarls against his mouth and bites his tongue, and his blood seeps into her mouth, and he pulls away with a sharp laugh and blood dripping on his chin.

"Oh, Wendybird," he laughs, and pulls at her curls until tears collect in her violent eyes. "If you won't appreciate all I've done for you, let's see how much you'll miss it when I put you in a cage."

Wendy pants beneath him. "You wouldn't."

He leans down, the smile slipping from his face, and a shadow crosses his skeletal face. "I have no need for you, Wendybird. But you can _never_ leave."

Kings have no need for a Queen, but the Pan—he grins down at his prisoner, and the bars of her cage slam down before her.


End file.
